Intangible
by PsychGirl
Summary: Something's wrong with Jim, and Blair's at a loss to explain why. Can he figure it out before it's too late? My first purposely-written-as-gen story!


**Disclaimers**: They don't belong to me, unfortunately, but to Paramount and Pet Fly.

**Warnings**: The ending's a bit angsty.

A very big thank you to my beta, earth2skye, both for finding the time during the holidays to go over this and for her insightful and very helpful comments. All mistakes are mine own.

Written for the Give and Take TS challenge on LJ. My prompt was: Jim's sense of touch is even more enhanced than the rest of his senses. He has an almost compulsive need to touch Blair but is embarrassed by it/tries to deny it. When he gets sick mysteriously, it's up to Blair to find the cause.

Takes place between Breaking Ground and Prisoner X.

* * *

Blair reached out and slapped the snooze button, the insistent beep of the alarm clock finally having wormed its way into his awareness. He peered at the clock blearily. 6:30 am. Sighing, he rolled over, pulling the comforter up around his shoulders and burrowing back into his warm bed. He could hear the shower going and knew that Jim would let him know when he was finished. 

Sure enough, after an all-too-brief period during which Blair was just getting back into a nice dream that involved him and Cindy Lewis and a can of whipped cream, he was jolted awake by a couple of loud raps on the door.

"Hey, short stuff!" Jim bellowed. "Up and at 'em!"

Grumbling, Blair pushed off the covers, apologizing mentally to the Cindy in his dreams, and sat upright. He fumbled for his robe, pulling it on and shuffling slowly towards the door.

Jim met him halfway between his room and the bathroom with a cup of coffee. He hesitated, squinting at Jim, weighing the urge to lash out at his tormentor against the lure of caffeine, then decided he'd rather have the coffee and reached for the cup. "Thanks," he muttered thickly, then took a long sip.

Jim grinned at him, a towel wrapped around his hips, looking fresher and brighter than any person had a right to be at this hour. "No problem," he said, patting Blair on the shoulder. "You coming in with me this morning?"

"No," he replied, the caffeine now rushing through his body making it easier to actually form words with his lips, "I've got a meeting with my advisor, and then office hours. I can come after that, though… I'll probably make it by 11 or so."

"Sounds good." Jim headed for the stairs to his room, tousling Blair's hair as he went by. "Hit the shower, Chief. I should have breakfast ready by the time you get out."

Thirty minutes later he was a new man, courtesy of a hot shower, a shave, and another cup of coffee. And Jim was as good as his word; he was just scraping the eggs onto their plates when Blair emerged from his room, pulling on a flannel shirt.

Detouring into the kitchen, Blair grabbed the plate of toast from the counter, and sat down at the table. Jim brought the coffeepot over and filled both their cups, and then they sat down to eat.

"I'd like to go over Henderson's body again today, if you're up to it," Jim said.

"You think you might have missed something?"

Jim shrugged one shoulder. "Probably not. But the alley was dark, and the smell of garbarge was pretty hard to screen out. I'd just like to be sure." He glanced up at Blair, a serious expression on his face. "I know it's hard for you, Chief. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important. It's just…"

Blair waved his hand dismissively. "No, I know. It's not like we have any other potential leads." He took a bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully. "It's okay, I'll cope. Want to do it before lunch?"

Jim nodded. "That okay?"

"Better than after. At least then I won't have anything in my stomach."

Giving him a rueful smile, Jim reached out and squeezed his shoulder gently. "Thanks, Chief." Then he tossed back the remainder of his coffee and rose, taking his plate and cup to the sink. He headed over to the coat rack and started strapping on his shoulder holster. "I'll see you at the station, then. Good luck with your advisor."

Blair made a face. "Thanks. See you later."

The door shut, and Blair turned his attention to finishing his eggs. Once he was done, he put his dishes in the sink, then gathered up his notes and laptop, thrusting them into his backpack. Grabbing his keys and his coat, he left, making sure to lock the loft door behind him.

* * *

"Hey! Hold the door!" 

Blair slid into the elevator, giving the pretty blond standing inside a wide smile. "Thanks so much. I'm already running a little late, and I _really_ don't want to have to walk up six flights of stairs…."

She smiled back, blushing prettily. "No problem. Sixth floor, then?"

"Yes, please."

With a slight lurch, the elevator started upwards. Blair noticed that the third floor button was already illuminated; surmising that this was where his fellow rider was getting off, he said, quickly, "My name's Blair, Blair Sandburg. What's yours?"

The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Still smiling, the woman exited the car, turning to face Blair. "Oh, I know who _you_ are," she said. "I've been warned about _you_. Bye-bye." She waved her fingers at him as the door closed.

Blair sighed. It would seem that he was getting a reputation at the precinct. Undoubtedly Sam was to blame for that. Now that their on-again, off-again relationship was off again, she was complaining loudly about him to anyone who would listen.

Oh, well, he thought, as he hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, he didn't really want to date anyone from the PD anyway. His experience with Sam had made him a little wary. Maybe it was time to go back to grad students… nice, sane, normal grad students.

The doors opened and he exited, heading into the bullpen, still lost in his thoughts. "Hey, man, I'm _so_ sorry I'm late," he said, starting the apology as soon as he walked through the door. "Exams are next week and…." He trailed off as he realized that Jim was not sitting at his desk.

"In with Simon," Brown said, gesturing with an elbow as he walked past Jim's desk carrying a file.

"About what?"

Brown shrugged. "I don't know, but it must be something big. He's been in there over a half an hour already, and Simon's got the blinds drawn."

Blair glanced at Simon's office, wishing for Jim's hearing. He thought about going over and knocking on the door, but there was something foreboding about the closed blinds. Attempting to distract himself, he pulled some lecture notes out of his backpack and sat down at Jim's desk.

His head snapped up a few minutes later when Simon's office door flew open with a crash. Jim stalked out, cold fury written all over his face, in every line of his body. He strode over to where Blair was sitting and reached for his jacket.

"Jim?" Blair said, apprehensively. "What's the matter?"

Jim's eyes met his, and he could see hurt and concern in their depths. There was a pause, then Jim took a breath, as if to say something.

"Ellison." Simon's voice had a definite warning tone to it. Blair glanced over to see him standing in the doorway to his office, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression stern.

The look of anger on Jim's face hardened. His gaze slid away from Blair, the muscles in his jaw jumping convulsively. Yanking his jacket off the tree, he stamped out of the bullpen, bypassing the elevator and heading for the stairway.

Blair grabbed his backpack and started to head out after him.

"Sandburg, can I see you in my office?" The request was made in a surprisingly gentle voice, a distinct change from the steely reproof of a moment ago.

He hesitated, torn between going after Jim and pumping Simon for information. "But… I… I gotta…."

"Blair, please."

Alarmed at the unusual conciliatory tone, he hurried into Simon's office, closing the door behind him. "Simon, what the fuck—"

"Have a seat." Simon motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. "Want some coffee?"

He couldn't say anything for a second, he was so stunned. Then he found his voice. "Simon, what the hell is going on? You never offer me coffee."

Simon extended a cup towards him and Blair took it automatically. "Sit," Simon ordered, pointing at a chair.

Now that was more like the Simon he knew, and Blair sat, relieved that things appeared to be going back to normal. "So... what's up with Jim? Are his senses acting up or something?"

"No." Simon's mouth was drawn in a grim line. "Blair… well, there's no easy way to say this. Jim's had a sexual harassment complaint filed against him."

"What? You're kidding me."

Simon shook his head slowly.

"Simon, man, Jim would never—"

"Sandburg, my hands are tied," Simon replied. "There's a very specific policy on this and I've got to follow it to the letter, for Jim's sake."

Blair blew out a long breath, anxiety warring with concern. "So, is he suspended?"

"No, but I've given him the afternoon off to sort some things out."

He stood, putting the untouched coffee on Simon's desk. "Thanks for the heads up, Simon. I'm gonna go find him and see what I can do to help."

"Blair, sit down." Simon's voice was still soft, but had the definite tone of a command.

He obeyed, the butterflies in his stomach suddenly morphing into jet airplanes.

Simon sighed, pulling his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. "You can't go find Jim, because you're part of the problem."

He stared at Simon in astonishment, unable to even muster a response to that.

"The complainant is alleging that Jim has an excessive amount of physical contact with you, and that this creates a hostile workplace environment."

"Simon, that's ridiculous," he replied, shaking his head. "Jim's just a very tactile person."

Simon looked faintly uncomfortable. "He touches you a lot, Blair. I've noticed it too."

He glared at Simon and opened his mouth to reply, but was forestalled when Simon raised his hand. "I'm not saying there's any merit to the complaint. But he does have his hands on you a lot."

Blair frowned. Sure, Jim touched him a lot – a hand on his back or shoulder as they were entering or leaving a room; affectionate pats on the knee or cheek; an arm braced across him protectively. A couple of times he'd even grabbed Blair's hand and ran it over some object, as if Blair would be able to share his hyper tactile sense.

He looked up at Simon. "It's probably just a proximity thing. You know, we live together, work together." But he knew that wasn't it, and he could see the same awareness in Simon's eyes. "Man, I promise you, there's nothing hinky about it. It's not like he's hot for me or something. It's…." He exhaled, knowing Simon didn't want to hear this. "It's probably a Sentinel thing."

Simon nodded, but his expression was dour. "I figured as much. But it doesn't really matter." He gave Blair an apologetic look. "I'm temporarily suspending your ride-along pass, effective immediately."

Blair snorted. "I thought that the policy in cases like this was to transfer the _victim_."

Simon looked uncomfortable again. "Well, you're also a victim. The complainant filed a second harassment suit on your behalf."

Apprehension shifted to anger. "What? She's filed against Jim for me? What the hell, Simon? How can she do that?"

"There's a clause in the law that allows for third-party filing. It's meant to be used in cases where the alleged victim is too afraid of the perpetrator to blow the whistle."

"Afraid? She's saying I'm scared of Jim?"

"The complainant's alleging that the contact is unwelcome on your part, but you're too afraid to say anything because you think Jim would retaliate against you, plus you'd lose your observer status and therefore access to what you need for your dissertation." Simon's eyes narrowed. "And I never said the complainant was a woman."

"You didn't have to," Blair said grimly. "And I have a pretty good idea of who it is."

"Blair," Simon said, the warning tone he'd had earlier with Jim back in his voice, "do _not_ go talk to her. You'll just be making things worse."

He didn't like it, but he knew Simon was right. "Okay, but once this is all over, she and I are going to have a reckoning." _I knew Sam was pissed at me_, he thought, _but I never dreamed she'd do something like this_.

"Someone from IA will be in touch with you to schedule a time for your deposition. Oh, and one more thing." The guilty look was back on Simon's face. "You can't have any contact with Jim until the investigation is over. At all."

"You mean… oh, man." His heart sank. It had taken a moment for the full meaning of that to sink in. "You mean I gotta find a place to crash temporarily?"

"No," Simon replied hurriedly, "Jim insisted that you stay in the loft. That's why I gave him the afternoon off, so he could pack some things and go get a room somewhere."

Blair shook his head, hating the thought of being in the loft alone, of not being able to talk to Jim, especially given this mess. "This sucks, Simon."

"I know, kid. I agree." Simon shifted some papers around on his desk. "Give me about a half an hour, and then we'll go to the loft."

He frowned. "You don't have to give me a ride, I've got my car." Then, seeing the look on Simon's face, comprehension dawned. "Oh."

"Yeah." Simon wouldn't meet his eyes. "I have to be able to testify later that you and Jim didn't have any contact after I notified you."

Feeling suddenly exhausted, he rose. "Okay. I'll be out here, doing some work for the U. Let me know when you're ready to go."

"Will do."

He paused when he got to the door and waited until Simon looked up at him. "Thanks, Simon. I know this isn't an easy position for you to be in, and I appreciate everything you're doing to help."

Simon gazed at him for a moment, sympathy in his eyes. "It'll turn out okay, Blair, you'll see."

"I hope so." He opened the door and shuffled wearily out into the bullpen.

* * *

Blair stomped out of the Internal Affairs office, squelching the impulse to slam the door behind him. He didn't want to do anything to make this situation worse… but, man, that guy Aldo was an ass! 

Aldo had finally called him, after a week, and asked him to come in to the station for an interview. Once he was there, Aldo had questioned him repeatedly about his and Jim's relationship, hinting again and again that he and Jim were lovers, until Blair had had enough and had told him off in no uncertain terms. It hadn't fazed Aldo a bit, though; he'd just moved on to asking Blair about Jim's behavior with other women. Did he, for example, notice anything hostile or untoward in Jim's behavior towards Cassie Wells? How about Sheila Irwin?

He gritted his teeth at the memory. Bad enough to have his own honor impugned. But Jim's… Jim was one of the most upstanding guys he knew, honorable and chivalrous and principled to a fault, and it drove Blair crazy to hear the innuendo in Aldo's voice, the sordid familiarity with which he insinuated that Jim was less than he seemed. It made him want to do anything to wipe that sleazy grin off Aldo's face, even violence, which was not something he contemplated often.

Still fuming, he paused in front of the elevator and walked in as the doors opened, only to find that it was going up instead of down. His mood lifted slightly, and he smiled grimly to himself. _Carpe diem_, he thought, pushing the button for the sixth floor, _seize the day_. He'd go up to Major Crimes and see if he could at least get a glimpse of Jim. And if Simon caught him, he'd come up with some kind of obfuscation to explain his presence.

He'd been a little surprised at how deeply Jim's absence had affected him. The loft, once a warm and welcoming place, had seemed hollow and empty the entire week. He'd stayed in his office at the U until nearly midnight, desperate to avoid the ache that took up residence in his chest when he walked through the door. And even though he worked until he was exhausted, he found it almost impossible to get to sleep. He'd lay awake, staring into the darkness, worrying about Jim, wondering how he was doing, how his senses were reacting to being in a hotel.

It was almost as if Jim had died, he thought, and felt a chill travel down his spine. _Stop it_, he told himself firmly. _It won't be long now, the investigation will be over, and everything will go back to normal_. Still, he couldn't deny that not being able to talk to Jim or see him or hear his voice was unnerving. Last night he'd actually crept upstairs and slept in Jim's bed, and had managed to get a few hours of sleep, surrounded by the reassuring presence of his friend.

He got off the elevator and headed down the hallway, glancing inside the bullpen as he walked. The blinds were open in Simon's office, but it looked empty. Jim wasn't at his desk, either. Well, he'd try the break room – maybe Jim was grabbing a cup of coffee.

The only person in there was Joel, though, who smiled at Blair when he saw him. "Hey, Blair, how's it going? We've missed you around here this week. Lots of stuff going on at Rainier, huh?"

So Simon was playing things pretty close to the chest. "Yeah," he said, pasting a quick smile on his face, "it's exam time. Been spending all my days and nights grading. Things should lighten up soon, though. Is Jim around?"

Joel frowned slightly. "No, he hasn't been here all week. I assumed he was on vacation."

His heart gave a lurch. "Oh, yeah, now I remember – he did say something about trying out that new lure you gave him for Christmas last year," he covered quickly, a sense of apprehension growing in his chest. "I've been so wrapped up at the U that I forgot. How about Simon?"

"He was here this morning, but he got a call at about ten-thirty and rushed out, said he probably wouldn't be back today."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" The feeling in his chest had just become a rock in his stomach.

Joel grinned. "Naw. Probably just the mayor or one of the high mucky-mucks wanting to see him, pronto. You want me to tell him you want to talk to him if he calls in?"

"No," he said, feigning indifference, "it's no big deal. I'll catch up with him later." He glanced at his watch, but purely for show. "Sorry, Joel, I gotta run. Got an appointment. I'll talk to you later." He backed out of the break room and headed for the elevator, so focused on getting home that he barely registered Joel's goodbye. If something had happened, surely Simon would have called him, or left a message, at the very least. Wouldn't he?

There was no message waiting for him at the loft. Instead of reassuring him, though, the silence only made him feel worse. He blew off Rainier for the rest of the day and tried to work at home, although he was too distracted to get much done. But he didn't want to leave, not even to go down to Colette's for something to eat, in case he missed a call from Jim or Simon.

_You're making a big deal out of nothing_, he chided himself. _Relax. Everything is fine. Simon would let you know if there was a problem_. The words didn't reassure him, however, and the weight in his stomach grew heavier and heavier. After a while he gave up any pretense of trying to work and just wandered aimlessly around the loft, looking at pictures of him and Jim, touching the objects that reminded him of their life together.

The next few days passed in a haze. He couldn't work, anxiety about the investigation and about Jim eating away at him. Reading or watching TV was impossible; he couldn't concentrate on anything long enough. He forced himself to eat, even though he didn't have any appetite. And he still wasn't sleeping well, even after he'd succumbed and taken his pillow and his comforter upstairs to Jim's bed. Exhausted, he'd fall asleep on the couch, waking with a start after a few hours, terrified that he'd missed a call or a knock on the door.

He was just considering heating up some soup for lunch when the phone rang. He snatched it up, his heart lurching. "Hello?" he whispered, throat suddenly dry.

"Blair." Simon's voice. "I've just heard from IA. They completed their investigation. None of the allegations against Jim could be proven. They've cleared him of all the charges."

"Oh, man," he sighed, dropping on to the couch, relief making his knees wobbly. "That's great, that's so great. So Jim can come home now?"

Silence. Then Simon cleared his throat, and Blair felt the weight in his stomach leap up and tighten around his heart like a fist. "Listen, Blair…Jim's…Jim's in the hospital."

The world tilted, spun, and he felt dizzy. "What?" he gasped. "Why? When? What happened? Simon, why the hell didn't you call me?"

"I'm calling you now," Simon snapped. Then his voice softened. "I'm sorry, Blair. I'm just finding out about it myself. It seems that Jim was being a little stubborn when he first got here."

"Oh, that's a surprise," he muttered sarcastically. Then he took a deep breath and centered himself. Negative vibes would just make things worse. "How bad is it?"

Simon paused. "Pretty bad. I think we could really use your help."

"I'm on my way," he replied, thumbing the phone off and tossing it onto the couch as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

* * *

Blair pushed the door to the hospital room open slowly and peered inside. Simon had wanted him to talk to the doctor first, but he couldn't wait. He had to see Jim. 

The form in the hospital bed seemed small and shrunken. Blair felt his heart lurch; suddenly, terrifyingly sure that he was too late, that Jim was already gone. In the next second, however, he heard the steady beep of the monitor, and relief washed through him.

He approached the bed quietly. Jim's eyes were closed, his face oddly slack. His body looked stiff and clumsy somehow, like a wax model rather than something living and breathing. "Hey, buddy," he said softly, gripping Jim's shoulder.

Jim opened his eyes, the normally sharp gaze now dull and filled with a weary resignation. "Chief," he breathed.

"What's going on?"

"Wish I knew. I can't feel anything anymore. Not a thing. It's like… like I'm dissolved… intangible…."

Blair felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Jim's voice was flat and atonal, completely without inflection. His face was mask-like, expressionless; his body still and limp. The only part of him that looked alive was his eyes.

An almost primal terror rose within Blair. It was like his brain didn't see Jim as being human. "Wh-when did it start?" he asked, clenching onto the rails of Jim's bed tightly, refusing to let his baser instincts get the better of him.

"About a week ago. Lost my sense of touch…then woke up a day or so later and I was like this. I can't feel a thing…I can see my body, but it doesn't feel like it's a part of me, like it's someone else's or just a lump of clay or something."

"And your other senses?"

"Fading." Jim closed his eyes, his breathing slow and shallow.

"Hang in there, partner." Blair forced himself to grip Jim's shoulder again, the sensation strange, the muscles lax and flaccid under his hand. "I'm gonna figure everything out."

"Okay," Jim whispered, not opening his eyes.

He gave Jim's shoulder another squeeze and left the room. Simon was standing in the hallway with another man; tall, but older, with a thick thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing a white coat. "Mr. Sandburg," the man said, holding his hand out. "I'm Dr. Johnson, Mr. Ellison's neurologist."

Absently he shook the man's hand, his thoughts still on Jim. "What's going on with him?"

Johnson sighed. "As near as we can tell, Mr. Ellison has experienced a complete loss of proprioceptive function."

"Body sense," Blair supplied, seeing Simon's confused look. "Sometimes thought of as the sixth sense. It's the part of your perceptual system that lets you know where your body is in space without you having to see it."

"Well, yes, in part," Johnson chimed in. "The brain constantly receives information from sensory neurons in the joints and the muscles that tell where the body is at any given point in space and time." His expression became grave. "But there's more to it than that. The brain also relays information out to help the body maintain tone and posture. Without that information, Mr. Ellison is effectively paralyzed, unable to move a muscle."

"Is that why his voice is so strange?" Simon asked.

"Exactly so," Johnson replied. "The muscles and tendons that make up the vocal apparatus aren't receiving any input, so they can't expand and contract to provide the usual range and expressivity of the human voice."

"But the muscles, the vocal cords themselves, nothing's damaged, is that what you're saying?" Blair said, feeling the beginnings of a sense of relief. Maybe, if nothing was damaged permanently, Jim would be able to recover from this.

"That's correct. But there are other consequences of loss of proprioception," Johnson continued. That information from the brain also gives people a sense of their own body; a kind of identity, if you will. A way to recognize their body as theirs. In Mr. Ellison's case, that sense seems to have completely shut down. Although he can see his body, his brain doesn't recognize it as his, because it's not receiving that flow of information from those sensory neurons."

"But why not?"

"We're not sure why, exactly, but it looks like the roots of those neurons – gathered primarily in the spinal and cranial nerves – have atrophied." Johnson shook his head in puzzlement. "Maybe some kind of inflammation, maybe an infectious process…we don't know. We've been treating him with antibiotics and anti-inflammatory agents, but it doesn't seem to have helped. In fact, whatever this illness is seems to be progressing. When he was first admitted, it was just the proprioceptive neurons that were atrophied, but now it looks as though his other sensory neurons are being affected as well."

Fear renewed its grip on Blair's heart. "You mean he's getting worse?"

Johnson nodded soberly.

Blair's mouth was moving and the words were coming out before he even knew what was happening. "I want to take him home, back to the loft."

"Sandburg, you can't be serious!" Simon had been quiet during Johnson's description, but now he exploded.

Looking equally shocked, Johnson shook his head firmly. "Mr. Sandburg, that's impossible. Even if Mr. Ellison's condition were stabilized, his nerves are not going to regenerate. He can't feed himself, he can't toilet by himself, he can't bathe himself. He is going to require long-term skilled nursing care for the rest of his life."

Blair clamped his mouth shut and glared at the two men rebelliously. Intellectually, he knew they were right. But there was an instinct moving inside him, something that told him that there was more going on here than just a medical problem. This was a sense of Jim's that had gone haywire, after all. It had to have something to do with his being a Sentinel, he just knew it. But he didn't understand what; he couldn't put the pieces together yet, and, until he could, he had no idea what to do about it. The sense of knowing, of the solution being right in front of him, was overwhelming, but, as much as he concentrated, the answers remained tantalizingly out of his reach.

He was a little frustrated that Simon didn't seem to understand; after all, Simon had seen Jim's senses do much stranger things. But then, Simon had never wanted to know any details about the Sentinel stuff.

"I'm gonna go sit with Jim for a while and keep him company," he muttered, turning his back on the two men and going into Jim's room.

_Some Guide you turned out to be_, he berated himself, gripping the rails of Jim's bed tightly. _Incacha would be ashamed of you. Your Sentinel is sick, hurting, and you don't have a clue what's going on_. His heart sinking, he closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. What was he going to do if he couldn't figure this out? What would that mean for Jim?

"Chief…"

He opened his eyes to find Jim looking at him, his gaze beseeching.

"We have to talk, partner."

Swallowing, he reached out and gripped Jim's shoulder tightly. "About what?"

Jim exhaled. "I can't even feel your hand on my shoulder any more," he said, his voice weirdly hollow. "Blair, I can't live like this. I want you to promise me—"

"No," he rasped, forcing the words through the tightness in his throat. "No. Don't ask me that, Jim. Not that."

"Dammit, Blair, I—"

"No. I'll do anything I can, but I'm not going to help you kill yourself."

Jim closed his eyes, and Blair knew that he was mentally tightening his jaw muscles, even though his face remained as slack and inexpressive as ever. He seemed to be struggling to breathe deeply. Blair was about to call for a nurse when Jim spoke.

"I put the loft in your name a couple of months ago. My lawyer has my will; you're the executor of my estate. I don't care what you do with it, except that I want Sally to be taken care of. The rest is yours. Finish your research, get your doctorate, write a book, take a trip; whatever you want to do…" His voice grew faint and trailed off.

"Jim…" he choked out, "I already told you, I won't—"

"I don't need your help, Chief."

"Just give me a day or two, Jim, please!" he begged, feeling tears collect in his eyes. "Give me some time to figure this out. I know I can do something to help. I know I can. I just need some time. Please? Promise me?"

Jim was silent for a long time, so long that Blair started to wonder if he was still conscious. Finally, in a voice so faint Blair could barely hear it, he said, "Okay."

He ran his sleeve across his eyes, almost dizzy with relief. "Okay. I'm gonna fix this, Jim, I promise."

* * *

Blair eased himself into the pew in the small hospital chapel and ran a hand wearily through his hair. Over the last few hours – since he'd arrived at the hospital, really - Jim had been slowly but steadily declining, becoming less and less responsive. Almost as if he was giving up, in spite of his words to Blair. Dr. Johnson wasn't sure he was going to make it through the night. 

And Blair knew the answer was right there, right in front of his face. But he was so tired. He'd been sleeping so poorly since all this began, and he just couldn't muster his thought processes enough to put it all together.

He'd come down to the chapel to find a quiet place in which to think. Not that Jim's room wasn't quiet. But it was too quiet; Jim's stillness was a constant reminder to Blair of his promise to Jim, and his imminent failure. He'd hoped that in the peace of the tiny chapel his exhausted brain would be able to start putting some of the pieces together.

Instead, he found himself sinking to his knees on the padded rest, his hands clasped together in front of him. He'd never been a devout practitioner of any religion, preferring instead to observe and appreciate the wide diversity of faiths and practices. But now…now he knelt and opened his heart, desperately wanting, needing, to connect with something greater than himself.

_Please_, he prayed, _please help me_. _I can't lose him. He's my Sentinel, but more than that, he's my friend, my brother, my home, my rock. I need him. I don't know what I would do without him_.

"Blair?"

He looked up, startled, his meditation interrupted by the quiet inquiry. Cassie Wells was standing in front of him. "Cassie," he said, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said, fingering the strap of her handbag restlessly. "I…I wanted to come by and see how Jim was doing."

"Thanks," he said quietly. Although Simon hadn't made any formal announcement, word about Jim's condition had gotten around the station pretty quickly.

"I feel like this is all my fault, Blair," she went on. "I mean, I know that they're not connected, but I feel like if I hadn't…if I hadn't…"

"If you hadn't what?" he asked.

"If I hadn't made that report…"

He gaped at her, shock vibrating through him. "_You_ made the report? _You_ reported Jim for sexual harassment?"

"Look, I know it was a really, really stupid thing to do…"

"Christ, Cassie," he blurted out, "what in the hell were you thinking? You could have ruined his career! And what possessed you to make an accusation on _my_ behalf? You don't have the right to do that!"

"I didn't think they'd take it seriously!" she snapped back. "You're just a civilian observer. I figured they'd just pull your pass and cover it up. I never dreamed there'd be an actual investigation. I figured they'd just get rid of you, you and Ellison would still be friends and roommates, and I…I…"

"You could work on becoming Jim's partner," Blair said bitterly.

She was silent for a moment, her eyes bright with tears. "Like I said," she ground out, "I know, now, how stupid that was. But you don't understand what it's like not to fit in."

"Oh, believe me, Cassie, I understand that completely. But that doesn't give you the right--"

"Screw rights!" she snapped viciously. "Do you think I always get what I deserve? You think this world is fair to me? This is a man's world, buddy, and you've got to be ruthless if you're going to get anywhere. I've wanted this, I've trained for this, I've waited for my chance and pulled some strings to make it happen, and guess what? You're already there, some hippie academic off the street, winner of a free ride-along with the Cop of the Year. I'm smart, I've got good ideas, I've got skills, but does he notice me? Not with you around. He listens to you, and he cares about you, and me, I'm nowhere, I'm no one. He won't give me the time of day. And I wasn't making that stuff up. He touches you all the time…"

It was as if a bolt of lightning had gone through his brain.

_He touches you all the time_…

_He touches you a lot, Blair_…

_Lost my sense of touch_…_then woke up a day or so later and I was like this_…

…_intangible_…

"No…" he breathed, "it can't be that simple…"

Cassie was still talking, but he interrupted her, rising and hurrying out of the pew. "I'm sorry, Cassie, I can't discuss this with you right now. I've got to go."

* * *

Blair skidded to a stop next to Jim's bed, lungs aching. Rather than wait for the elevator, he'd run up five flights of stairs. He leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. 

When he had regained some composure, he straightened up and looked at Jim. Jim's eyes were barely open, mere slits, focused dully on some point beyond the end of the bed. "Buddy," he said, with a wide grin, "I think I've finally got a clue about what's going on."

He reached out and gently picked up Jim's left hand. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he pulled it up and placed Jim's hand squarely on his bare chest. Jim's hand was cool and it felt limp and rubbery against his skin, like a latex glove.

Nothing happened. Jim remained frozen. His eyes hadn't changed at all; his gaze was still directed out into the beyond.

He covered Jim's hand with his own, rubbing it a little. A thread of doubt wormed its way into his thoughts. He'd been so sure that this was the answer. Had he been wrong? Had he made an assumption, fallen prey to wishful thinking?

And then it happened. Jim's hand grew warmer against Blair's skin, grew firmer, and the texture changed, shifted, became more like skin. He felt Jim's fingers twitch slightly.

Throwing his head back, he gave a whoop of delight and pumped his free hand. "Yes! I was right!"

Jim blinked once, and then his eyes opened all the way. His gaze wandered around, then found Blair, focusing in on him, his eyes adjusting, and the look he gave Blair was full of astonishment. "I…I can feel you," he whispered, still in that flat tone. "Blair, I can…I can feel that!"

After that, it was just a matter of time, and Blair watched happily as sensation crept back through Jim's body. It was kind of like watching how the light grew in the sky as the sun rose, he mused. Slowly, subtly, over the course of about an hour, Jim's face and body came back to life, regaining tone and posture and movement. His voice warmed and gained inflection, his breathing grew deeper, and, finally, a wide smile spread across his face.

Blair swallowed, his grin as wide as Jim's, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. "How do you feel, man?"

"I feel good. Really good." Jim said, his voice slightly hoarse but otherwise normal. "And hungry," he added plaintively.

When Dr. Johnson came in a few hours later, Jim was sitting up, eating breakfast one-handed and smiling at Blair, who was sitting on the edge of Jim's bed, talking a mile a minute and gesticulating wildly with one hand, while the other one remained clasped tightly in his partner's.

* * *

Blair strolled out of the elevator, whistling softly to himself and spinning the Volvo's keys around on his finger. Today, after a week in which Johnson had subjected Jim to every test he could devise, he was finally getting released. 

"I don't understand it," Johnson had said, flipping through page after page of test results. "It's…it should be impossible, yet…all the tests indicate that your sensory nerves have…have regenerated somehow."

Blair smiled at the memory. _Never underestimate the power of Sentinel and Guide!_ he thought, and chuckled.

The door to Jim's room was open, and as he got closer, he could hear Jim's voice, raised. He paused, wondering what was going on.

"…this was just supposed to be a short-term arrangement…"

"Jim." Simon's voice, placating. "There's nothing wrong with needing people."

Jim exhaled irritably. "That's not what I'm talking about, Simon, and you know it. Sandburg isn't going to want to follow me around forever. Eventually he's going to finish his dissertation, get his degree, get a job, and then what? I'm outta here, thanks a bunch, have a nice life, while I slowly slip into a waking coma?"

"Blair wouldn't do that; he wouldn't let that happen to you."

"Or maybe I can just explain to his wife – 'Sorry, I know it's strange that I'm always coming over here, but, you see, I have to keep touching your husband or I'll become a total invalid'. Yeah. That'll go over well."

He heard the squeak of Simon's shoes as he paced around Jim's room. "I don't know what to tell you, Jim. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe it was the stress of the investigation plus the separation." The squeaking stopped and Blair could just imagine Simon giving Jim a hard look. "What I do know is that Sandburg knows more about this stuff than anyone else. You need to talk to him about it."

"Right, and guilt him into giving up his own life in the bargain. I don't think so, Simon. That's too much to ask. I won't do that to him."

"So what then?"

There was a long pause. "I need you to put me on some solitary assignments," Jim said, his voice hard. "Stakeouts, undercover work, stuff like that. Not all the time, just once in a while. I need to know the parameters of this thing."

"Okay. Just don't go looking for trouble."

"I don't have to, Simon. Trouble usually finds me."

"You know what I mean," Simon snapped. "Don't get all lone cop on me."

Jim was silent, and Blair was sure Simon was getting an Ellison version of the glare. "And don't tell Sandburg," Jim said finally.

"Jim—"

"Simon, I mean it."

Now it was Simon's turn to exhale irritably. "Fine. But I think you're making a big mistake."

"What else is new?" Jim said softly, his voice rough.

Blair slowly slid his keys into his pocket and moved quietly away from the door. He went to the end of the hall and leaned against the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass, his heart heavy.

It had seemed so innocuous, back on that warm summer day. A simple exchange that would benefit both of them. Jim would get information, and he'd get a dissertation.

But now, now it was complicated. Now they were tangled up in this thing, and it was bigger than both of them, and he didn't have the faintest idea what to do about it or how to fix it. Or whether he even could fix it. And whether he would if he could.

After all, dependency was a two-way street.

_I'm sorry, Jim_, he thought miserably. _I just wanted to help you with your senses. I didn't mean to make things more difficult_.

He took a deep breath and composed himself. Turning away from the window, he walked steadily down the hallway and knocked once on Jim's door, then pushed it open. "Hey, man," he said, glancing at Jim and Simon, proud of the way his voice stayed even, "you ready to blow this pop stand?"

"You know it, buddy," Jim said, his smile and voice so easy that, for a moment, Blair wondered if he had simply imagined the whole conversation. Then he noticed that Simon wasn't meeting his gaze, and knew that he hadn't.

Jim slid off the bed and grabbed his duffle, heading for the door. He stopped and turned when he saw Blair wasn't following him. "Chief, you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, Jim, I'm fine," he said.

And he almost believed it.

The End.


End file.
